Page 87 of Her Remarkable Protector

The thought of heading straight to the Coroner’s Office nags at me, but as I start the car and ease onto the road, my instincts pull me in another direction. It’s not just that I’m sure Honor’s already gone—it’s Kalispell itself. Something feels off. Too busy. The cars, the faces, the way some people linger just a beat too long.

These aren’t locals, and I don’t mean tourists. Stone’s men are here. Damon’s already sniffing around. Somehow, he’s caught the scent of Honor too. I’m not the only one looking.

There’s somewhere else I should search.Canada.The thought keeps circling back.

Who could it be? When she gave birth, Ethan and I searched for her relatives. We discovered her parents were deceased, though we had no idea who Dalton and Bree Deveraux really were at the time. Looking back, how close had I been to uncovering the truth?

Beyond her parents, our search revealed that her grandparents were also deceased, leaving only an uncle in France who kept to himself with his own family. Had we overlooked anyone?

I flip through the articles again, revisiting every painful detail of that day. Then it strikes me: that silly T-shirt! I smeared it with her mother’s blood to fool Stone into thinking Honor was already dead. Back then, it felt like nothing—just a kid being silly. But now, it’s a lead I can’t ignore.

My mom is from Canada. Deal with it!

The words flash in my mind. Maybe there’s someone connected to her mother in Canada—a family friend, a distant relative? It’s a long shot, but it’s something.

I tap the touchscreen on the dashboard, pulling up speed dial. “Ethan, get Rhea to dig into Bree Deveraux, maiden name Anson. Check for any connections in Canada.”

As the call disconnects, the dashboard reverts to the navigation screen, but I barely glance at it. My focus stays on the streets. The sense that something’s wrong hasn’t let up.

I glance at the idle display on the dash and mutter, “C’mon, Ethan. Gimme something.”

The minutes drag, ramping up my frustration. Just as I’m about to call Ethan back, the screen lights up with an incoming call.

“Bree had a stepsister,” he says without preamble. “Lives in Cranbrook.”

Hope sparks for a moment, only to dim as a car glides past me. The driver’s eyes lock with mine, assessing, calculating.

Whoever he is, I can’t risk leading him north. Not even a hint.

I make a calculated choice and veer south.

The car drifts away, seeming to lose interest. Maybe it wasn’t Damon’s men after all.

The stretch of I-90 ahead is uneventful, but the reprieve doesn’t last. The same car from before reappears, lingering at a distance. I skip Helena, pressing further south, only to notice another car trailing me, its intent harder to ignore.

Out of nowhere, a car barrels onto the dirt road from a hidden side path, slamming into my vehicle and sending me skidding into the embankment beneath the overpass.

Dust clouds the air as I wrestle the wheel, forcing the car back onto the gravel track. But there’s no time to recover—a second car, one of the two that had been tailing me, suddenly accelerates, ramming me straight into one of the concrete pillars holding up the bridge.

The impact jerks my head forward, my vision swimming as a sickening crunch reverberates through the car. I reach for my gun, but the jarring collision has jammed the holster, seizing up the locking mechanism. Useless. Before I can react further, another car slams into my rear, pinning me in place beneath the overpass.

My hands fumble for the door locks, but it doesn’t matter. They’re on me in seconds. The doors are wrenched open with brutal force. Five men, maybe six. I don’t stop to count.

I lunge, fists flying, landing a solid hit on one of them, but it’s not enough. They swarm me. One clamps my arms while another kicks my legs out from under me. My belt jerks sharply, and I twist, making one last desperate attempt to draw my jammed gun. But one of them cuts the holster loose, leaving me completely unarmed in seconds.

Damn it! These men know exactly what they’re doing—probably drilled this in their morning practice.

They yank me from the car with ferocious strength, dragging me backward. My boots scrape against the pavement as I’m hauled away.

The first man lunges for me, but I’m faster. My elbow connects with his jaw, sending him staggering. The second grabs for my arm, and I twist, yanking him forward into the frame of the car. It’s chaotic, but I use every ounce of strength, every trick I’ve learned over the years. A punch here, a kick there. For a brief moment, I think I might have a chance.

But there are too many of them. One manages to get behind me, slamming something hard into the back of my knee. I buckle, pain shooting up my leg. Another lands a blow to my ribs, the ache stealing my breath. They’re relentless. My vision narrows, darkens, as fists and boots continue to rain down. Still, I keep swinging. I’ll be damned if I make it easy for them.

Half-conscious, I’m dragged from the wreckage and shoved into another vehicle. My head lolls to the side as I try to make sense of my surroundings, but it’s all a blur.

With every ounce of strength I have left, I slam my head into the nearest man’s face. He staggers back, cursing, but the others close in like a pack of hungry hyenas. Fists rain down on me, one after the other. I lash out blindly, my knuckles connecting with something solid, but it’s not enough.

An unforgiving punch sends the world spinning. Blood fills my mouth, and darkness edges in. My body refuses to move, but my mind clings to one thought—I’ll get back up. But it may be too late.

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